


Born to Strange Sights

by ryfkah



Category: Howl Series - Diana Wynne Jones, Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-27
Updated: 2011-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:41:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryfkah/pseuds/ryfkah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different Howell Jenkins, called to a different kind of wizardry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born to Strange Sights

Mrs. Penstemmon blinked as an apparition appeared in the mirror behind her, and then calmly went back to powdering her face. “Howell Jenkins,” she said. “I thought I trained you better than to call up like that without notice. “

“Pendragon is what I’m using now,” said her most frustrating student, and gave her an airy smile.

“Pendragon?” Mrs. Pentstemmon sniffed. “I don’t know why I should be surprised. In the years I have spent as senior to this area, I have never encountered a wizard as vain as you – and what, dare I ask, have you done to your hair?”

“I find my astonishing good looks,” explained Howell, “act as a strong weapon against entropy.”

“Clearly,” said Mrs. Penstemmon. Every wizard in the area vividly recalled the time that thirteen-year-old Howell Jenkins had attempted to take care of his acne problem by rewriting his own description in the Speech during a working, and had almost erased his own face as a result. “What is it you wanted me to do for you?”

Howl’s green eyes grew wide, and he pressed a hand to his chest, nattily clad in a black silk shirt that set off his currently-blonde hair. He looked far too elegant for the small and extremely untidy kitchen she could see in the background behind him. “You wound me, Mrs. Pentstemmon,” he said sadly. “Can’t I just call up to say hello to my old teacher? Must I always have an ulterior motive?”

“I certainly hope you do,” says Mrs. Pentstemmon, “or this would be a terrible waste of wizardry.” Howell could have just called on the phone, of course, but he always did have to be flashy. She worried about young Howell. Proud as a peacock, and that was exactly the sort of fatal flaw a Certain Person (in Mrs. Pentstemmon’s mind, this phrase always had capital letters and a disdainful edge) was always looking to exploit. Her only reassurance was how slippery Howell was. It made his workings lovely, complex things, a privilege to witness, really – not that she’d ever tell him that – but moreover, she hoped, it would keep him from getting pinned down into any devil’s bargain. On the other hand, that stroke of cleverness could be dangerous in and of itself. From what little she knew of it, his Ordeal had been harrowing. “Besides,” she added, “whatever it is must be important, to get you up before noon.”

“I’ve changed, Mrs. Pentstemmon,” Howell protested. “You know I can’t rely on raw power anymore. I’ve become studious. Diligent. You wouldn’t recognize my work habits anymore.”

Mrs. Pentstemmon allowed her face to express that she did not believe a word of it, and started to pull on her gold-mesh mittens.

Silence stretched for a moment, and finally Howell broke. “I did have one question I wanted to ask,” he said, aiming at her a charming, coaxing smile.

“Go on,” said Mrs. Pentstemmon.

“Senior,” said Howell. “What do you know about doing workings on stars?”


End file.
